


Shards

by SaintOlga



Series: Be A (New) Man [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AFAB Alexander Hamilton, Bisexuality, Exploration of Gender and Sexuality, Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben - Freeform, Gender Identity, Genderqueer Character, Historical Mysogyny (not explicit), Historical Notions of Sex/Gender, Historical Sexualities, Homosexuality, M/M, Misgendering, Sad Gay Baby John Laurens, Suicidal Ideation (mentioned), Trans Character, Trans Male Character, and his boys, depression (mentioned), please read the notes, queerness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 23:45:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8305765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintOlga/pseuds/SaintOlga
Summary: Out of the series of losses and wins and losses again, he emerges as A-l-e-x-a-n-d-E-R. As he is meant to be - or at least, as he is capable to be; a boy. A man.He has to be a man to do something more than merely survive.(Or, the afab!Hamilton historical AU nobody asked for.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an attempt to write a historical version of Alexander Hamilton who was born female but assumes man's identity throughout his life. Inspired by this fandom's variations of trans!Alex and non-binary!Alex, as well as [Androgynous Descriptions of Alexander Hamilton](http://publius-esquire.tumblr.com/post/146647131550/androgynous-descriptions-of-alexander-hamilton), Deborah Sampson and Chevalier d'Éon.  
> I wrote an outline of a story of historical afab!Alexander through his life a while ago, without planning to write the actual story; you can read it [here](http://saint-olga.tumblr.com/post/146946111819/afabalexander-hamilton-plot-bunny). Still, I kept going back to it, and here it is.  
> Remember, please, that at the time described, nobody knows what gender is, or what trans is; women are considered inferior to men; homosexuality is often understood in terms of inversion of your sex; and so on. The characters operate in concepts and terms of their times, as much as I can imagine and reproduce them.

His Christian name is lost somewhere between his mother’s deathbed and the hurricane. Out of the series of losses and wins and losses again, he emerges as A-l-e-x-a-n-d-E-R. As he is meant to be - or at least, as he is capable to be; a boy. A man.

He has to be a man to do something more than merely survive.

He is smart. Smart with books, and smart with numbers, and smart with people. Smart enough to be a boy among other boys, a man among other men. When the Eve’s curse comes painting his only good breeches red it’s almost his undoing; but he hides it well, and washes them as clean as possible, and marches on. Towards the ship that will take him away - take him to the continent.

In the itinerary of the ship, his name is Alexander Hamilton, and this is how the history will remember him.

 

* * *

 

Alexander swears to himself that love will never be his weakness, like it was for his mother; that his mind will stay clear, focused on the goal. He swears that pleasures of the flesh will not entice him, either. Intimacy of this kind is dangerous to him, after all. He can’t admit it to his friends, of course, and so he flirts when a lady is around, and drags the girls in the pub into his lap, grateful for their thick skirts hiding the lack of what other men are sporting, and shakes away the feelings in his groin and his chest, or rubs it off with his own hand, later in the night.

But the girls smell so nice, and are so soft; he drinks too much one night and somehow ends up with his head under a girl’s skirt, in the fragrant wet darkness, moaning almost as much as she does. He has to lie later about being too drunk and too sleepy to need her reciprocation; but the heady feelings discovered that night are enough for Alexander to risk another girl, and then a lady. He finds out that ladies are better at keeping secrets like his, as they are either married or unwed, and in both cases, unwilling to discuss anyone visiting their bed.

He starts including a marriage to a willing widow or a spinster with money and connections into his visions of his future, previously barren and ascetic.

He looks at men, too. It scares him, a possible proof of the nature he’s born with, a threat to everything he achieved. He doesn’t want to look, to think, to risk. It’s not worth it.

Then John Laurens comes into his life.

 

* * *

 

So sweet and so bitter, their first meeting, as Laurens is everything Alexander is, and more - noble without lies, and brave without holding back, and educated by schools, not by random books in stolen hours. A true knight of the revolution; a true citizen of the new Republic. A true man.

Alexander wants to hate him; he becomes his friend instead, unwilling but unable to resist the pull of the soul so amiable, the mind so desirable to his own.

Next, he falls prey to the weakness he swore to resist; falls in love.

It would be still possible to hold his distance, protected by the rules, and the laws, and the threat of discovery, and the almost constant company of others, if not for Laurens himself, who keeps looking at him with gentleness, and keeps touching him frequently, and sleeps next to him in the narrow bed, his breath even, his back warm against Alexander’s. If not for John’s stories about Europe, about Francis and Louis, with strange silences between sentences, with queer smiles that make Alexander’s chest tight with jealousy.

If not for them both turning around in their sleep one night, and waking up face to face, and Laurens, still drowsy, with his gaze soft and warm, leaning in and kissing Alexander on the lips.

In the grey light of the late fall dawn, they both look around, at their mates, still deep in the last morning sleep; and hurriedly, greedily kiss again.

 

* * *

 

“You’re a woman!” Laurens exclaims, and Alexander claps a hand over his mouth and looks around and only then winces painfully. They are away from everyone, deep in the forest, but he is still afraid that someone will know.

He has been afraid to let Laurens know, too. But what choice does he have? When their kisses are so sweet, burn so hot; when their minds are so alike they can finish each other’s sentences; when their souls seem to be aligned, alighted by each other’s presence… What choice does he have, but to tell his secret to this man, and then await his judgement?

The word still stings.

“I am not,” he says firmly, and straightens, spreads his narrow shoulders as wide as he can.

“But…” Laurens makes an aborted gesture to his chest. Alexander stifles the impulse to clutch at his open shirt. Instead, he closes the gap slowly, with intent; ties his cravat with his usual care and style. The fabric is rough on his nipples, unprotected by the usual bandages - he foregoes them today to be able to show to Laurens what he can’t put into words. What the word John used does not describe.

“I am not,” he repeats forcefully, tilting his chin up, challenge in his eyes.

John lowers his gaze, his fists clenched helplessly at his sides.

“Then who are you?” he asks, lost. He looks young, so young - Alexander is barely twenty, although everyone thinks he’s twenty two, and Laurens is even older than that; but sometimes, Alexander feels ancient, especially next to this man, with his noble ardor and the kind of naivete Alexander could never afford.

“I’m Alexander Hamilton,” he says. “The same man I was this morning.”

This morning, when they kissed furtively under the blanket; his cheek is still tingling slightly from Laurens’ stubble. This morning, when Laurens smiled at him over the general’s bent head while he was signing papers, a secret, intimate smile, not for a friend, but for a lover. This morning, when Alexander asked him to go into the woods later, and he brushed their fingers together, with a look expectant and a bit scared.

He didn’t know then what to expect, what to be afraid of. Wouldn’t even think of it. But now, he knows.

“What are you going to do?” Alexander asks bluntly. Laurens blinks, as if recognizing just now that he has to do something about this knowledge. Alexander can almost see his thoughts - what should I do? What can I do? Am I supposed to report him? Her? Hamilton’s life is in his hands now, and Laurens is slowly coming to this realization, while Alexander forces himself to breath, to wait, in silence, never giving out how fucking scared he is.

Laurens swallows, and Alexander waits for a blow. A fist, a word.

He gets a kiss instead, ardent and desperate.

There are still questions to be answered, or at least asked, but they don’t have much time; after just a few minutes, they have to go back, and Laurens shakes off the tree bark from Alexander’s back with a familiar grin, with a bit of shyness and a bit mischief hinting at what they’ve just been doing. Alexander grins back.

There are still conversations to be had, explanations to be given; but for now, they are good.

 

* * *

 

There isn’t much they can do, really - stolen glances, and stolen kisses, and stolen touches, and warm embraces under the cover of darkness and blankets; their shared bed now a blessing and a curse. The curse, because there are others just a few feet away, so all they can do is hold hands, and hold each other, inhale the smell, soak the warmth. Kisses can only be light, no wet sounds, no moans; touches can only be slow, not to jostle the covers, not to make a noise.

They are still sweet, those kisses, dropped on an open collarbone, the back of the neck, the twirl of the ear. They can still send fire under the skin, oversensitive with denial. A breath of air over the cold fingertips is now a caress most arousing; a finger running across a hipbone can bring one to the edge of release.

Alexander actually does it, once - sneaks a palm under the edge of John’s shirt, rubs circles over his rippling abdomen, just with his fingertips, kissing the back of his neck with feather-light lips, and when he dares a bite, a scratch of teeth over the skin, John comes with a gasp that makes them freeze, afraid to get caught.

There are other ways, bold and fast, that they discover. Alexander drags John’s hand between his thighs and squeezes them tight over it, strong fingers imprisoned next to his heated flesh, a welcome counterpoint, and comes with a shudder only John’s heavy body over him can hide. John takes his hand and covers with his bigger one, and guides over the hardness in his breeches, breathing painfully controlled, nightlight reflecting in his wide eyes,  until there’s a pulse under their palms, and then wetness.

They are thieves, now, stealing constantly - time, touch, taste, treasures unnecessary to anyone else, but forbidden nevertheless. They are becoming more and more skilled - and finally, they manage to steal a few hours alone.

 

* * *

 

John’s wide shoulders under his hands, John’s strong thighs between his own, John’s finger slips right in, thicker than Alexander's, tentative until Alexander rocks his hips to meet him, whispers “more” into his ear. There’s more, and Alexander can feel the wet slide, the slowly burning need. “More”, he gasps into John’s neck, and there’s a groan, and a second finger. Alexander whimpers, and John stops. “No-no-no,” Alexander puts his hand over his in a hurry, pushes him to continue. When he does, it’s beautiful. Alexander raises on his knees and grounds down, deeper, to the knuckles, and it’s even better, so much better…

He rides John’s fingers in abandon, pleasure growing and growing and so, so close, but not quite, never quite right. John is good - obedient, determined, such a good boy, so good for Alexander, yes… But then his hand stops for a second, and resumes, and starts again, and Alexander shifts to look at him in time to see his wince and frown.

“What..?” he asks. John looks at him apologetically and slowly frees his hand; Alexander hisses at the loss while John shakes and twists his wrist, as he does when his hand cramps from writing for too long. Oh.

Alexander catches his palm and raises to his lips. It smells strongly of his own arousal; he presses a kiss to the hurting wrist, and to the middle of the palm, and then, giving in to his curiosity, lickes at the wet fingers. Tangy taste, and bitter, salty skin underneath. So good. Under John’s bewildered gaze, Alexander tries some more; John moans. With a smile, Alexander leans in to kiss him next, deep and wet.  

Next minute, he turns around in John’s embrace, turning his back to him, again saddling his knees; but now, when he guides John’s hand - the other one, the one that isn’t tired - back between his legs the poor man doesn’t have to twist in uncomfortable. In fact, it’s just like when Alexander does it. _Exactly_ like it. Thick strong fingers sink in, and he drops his head back onto John’s shoulder.

“Yesss.”

He covers John’s palm with his own, guiding him into the rhythm; his own finger slips in, between John’s two, and the stretch and the burn drag a moan out of him, loud enough that John hurries to cover his mouth with his other hand, still covered in Alexander's scent and taste, and oh, it isn’t helping, isn’t helping at all… Alexander's fingers slide up his folds, find the little nub, and he arches up, the first small lightings running across his groin.

John is so, so good. Alexander revels in his smell, in his touch, in the strength of the body behind him; and when at the next move, he feels the hardness behind him, Alexander revels in it, too. Presses more, in fact, makes sure that each shift of his hips brings them in contact. John has to hide his moans in Alexander's shoulder.

Alexander bites onto his palm when he comes for the second time, and soon, for the third. John moans louder, but kisses his neck right after, hot and _hungry_.

There is a loud wet noise when Alexander finally raises himself off his fingers, too sensitive and tired. John is panting, and when Alexander turns to look at him, his eyes are huge and begging, his lips red from biting. “Oh, my love,” Alexander breathes, a word he never even thought before, but knows immediately to be absolutely true. John’s face at this moment… Alexander moves in to kiss him before his heart breaks from how beautiful he is.

Then, they open John’s breeches in a hurry, and Alexander wraps his hands around his hardness, and now this - this is new, this is something he has never done before, but Alexander Hamilton is good with new things. He strokes, and tugs, and rubs, and John throws back his head, bites his lips deep to keep the sounds in, and Alexander can’t stop himself from smiling because he’s doing this to John.

Then John’s palm covers his, fingers still wet from his own juices, slightly sticky, and holds tighter, and John gasps and his cock pulses and - oh. Oh. Alexander stares at the pearly white liquid, and knows that he wants to do it again, at the first convenience.

John moves his hands away with a slight wince, and draws him to his chest immediately. Curious, Alexander brings his wet hand to his lips and licks. It is very different from his own; he wrinkles his nose a bit. Still, not bad.

When he looks up John's eyes are wide, and he licks his lips hungrily, and reaches out to entwine their wet, sticky fingers.

“Dear boy,” he says, and tugs Alexander closer.

 

* * *

 

But in a few weeks, Alexander returns from a mission, and meets John in Washington’s office while delivering the letters to the general, and John looks at him guiltily. His heart stops; his first thought that he was discovered, that John broke the trust and told someone. But Washington looks at him no different than before, and no one comes to arrest him, and he has to wait until late at night to learn why Laurens can’t look him in the eye.

Stumbling over words, John tells him how he went to a camp woman.

“Why?” Alexander asks, perplexed and a bit hurt.

“Because I wanted to know if I can, with a woman, now,” Laurens whispers looking at his hands, and then at Alexander, with a gesture that is both vague and painfully clear. Alexander narrows his eyes.

“Now?” he insists mercilessly. He has an inkling of Laurens’ own secret, from aborted phrases in bed and out of it, but John never told him. It hurts, that he knows Alexander’s secret, one that would destroy Alexander but not John if discovered, but doesn’t share his own.

Alexander wants John to hurt, too.

“Now, that I… with you…” John rubs at his face angrily. “You know. You are… you.”

A woman. That’s what John thinks, still. Alexander straightens.

“So you went to _another_ woman?” he hisses ‘another’ so viciously that John flinches. Alexander clenches his fists.

“It was never good, before… you,” he whispers, pitiful if Alexander could have pity for him now. “I thought that now it would be.”

His voice sounds brittle, and Alexander suddenly understands what it is that he’s hearing. The shards of broken hope.

Hope to be _like others_ . What God meant you to be. _Natural_.

Alexander knows it intimately, although he had left it behind on the burning ship that brought him across the ocean.

There is some cruel part of him that enjoys this moment. Enjoys seeing John punished for his betrayal - not of fidelity, they didn’t pledge that, but of his belief in Alexander being what he is. Triumphs over the proof that this man belongs to him only, that he’s the only one to give him what he wants. Gloats over the man’s failure to overcome his perversion, to escape the boat he’s sharing with Alexander.

He is man enough to admit this darkness while still having compassion for the loss of hope, the pain he knows intimately. Not enough to stop himself from twisting the knife just a bit more.

“What would you do then?” he asks, low and cool. “Marry a fine girl and be happy?”

There are shadows in John’s eyes that make Alexander wonder; but then he replies quietly, “I wouldn’t leave you.”

The knife turns around and pierces Alexander's chest.

 

* * *

 

Fences are mended, and apologies accepted, and stolen moments shared again. Still, something is brewing in Alexander’s soul; his own hopes, long broken, shards swept away, now melting into something else. It boils over one night, in the heat of the embrace, when he gasps into Laurens’ lips, “Would you marry me?”

Laurens stops, breathless, a minute confusions clearing to be replaced by incredulity. He gapes at Alexander, but then shakes his head unhappily, in a strange counterpoint to his words: “Yes… Oh, yes. I would.”

“A harlot like me?” Alexander asks sharply, offended by Laurens’ strangely darkened expression. John looks up at him.

“Yes!” he cries, now without a pause, and brings him closer. “Yes, I would, in a heartbeat. My sweet…”

Alexander silences him with a kiss before John says something he doesn’t want to hear.

“It will never happen, you know?” he says pensively later, when they lay, tired and sweaty and on the brink of sleep, after lovemaking tinted with desperation, sharpened with the same shards of hope they seem to find wherever they go. “Even if I’m discovered,” Alexander continues, not looking at John who has risen on an elbow and stares at him, features barely seen in the darkness. “I… I would rather live in shame and dishonor that become a wife, a woman, confined to the house. Even for you.”

John doesn’t say anything, but nods, a dark shadow in the darker night, and settles down again, his head pillowed on Alexander’s shoulder, as usual. 

Through the night, he holds Alexander so tight he can’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

Von Steuben knows. Of course he does; Alexander shouldn’t be surprised. There is a knowing twinkle in the man’s eyes when he looks at John, the same twinkle as when he looks at North and Walker. But with Alexander, this twinkle seems to be a bit different. It bothers him. One of the secrets of his life, von Steuben shares; but the other…He worries and worries and worries until he looks at Louis de Pontière closely, and then he brings his worries to said Louis, and the man laughs and takes him to von Steuben.

“Oh, my boy,” Steuben tells him with a friendly pat on the shoulder, “I know, of course. You aren’t the only one like this, or did you think you are? Don’t worry, it’s not obvious - you are very good, in fact.”

“Then how do you know?” Alexander asks, gulping down half of his glass, not because he wants to get drunk, but because he haven’t had good wine in ages, what with the lack of resources they’re running into. Von Steuben sighs.

“You are such a beautiful boy, my dear Hamilton. And yet… My old heart would yearn for you, but my body - that doesn’t miss a pretty boy like you, ever - doesn’t sing for you. This is how I know.”

Alexander frowns, almost offended. But von Steuben only hugs his shoulders and tops off his glass.

“It’s the same with my Louis, you see. I love him, as I love all my boys - but my body doesn’t.”

“Not all of us are like this,” Louis pipes in, grasping Alexander's knee. “My Pierre isn’t.” His smile is both adoring and wicked. Alexander grins back knowingly.

“Your Colonel Laurens isn’t, if my old eyes aren’t betraying me,” von Steuben says, leaning in. Alexander looks up at him, and then ducks his head in acknowledgement. “Speaking of him… now, he gets my old body going quite all right.”

Alexander hears himself growl. Von Steuben laughs heartily. “There, there, my darling,” he pats Alexander's hand. “I only play with what people are willing to share. Keep your handsome boy.”

 

* * *

 

When Laurens leaves for the South, to recruit his black regiment, hope is all that’s left between them, melted and cast again into something new, sharp and painful but whole. They make love on his last night in the camp, young and burning with lust as much as love. Pushing himself up on his arms over Laurens, Alexander looks into his eyes, and kisses them closed, wishing he could take away the selfless desperation settling in his love’s gaze again.

“Promise me you will not die,” he asks, almost inaudibly. He knows all too well that while he might not be willing to share his handsome boy, the boy himself is willing to be shared - with death, seeking it out on the battlefield despite Alexander’s protestations and pleas. He knows too well the darkness that settles sometimes onto his lover’s heart and mind, that he tries so hard to drive away, and fails in his task so often.

He knows better than to ask this of a man of war, when their cause seems always on a brink of being lost. Still. A man can hope.

“I will try,” Laurens whispers back, and Alexander kisses him, sharp, as sharp as hope piercing his heart.

 

* * *

 

In a few months, the letters come from across the ocean, from one Martha Laurens, nee Manning, to be passed to her husband, and Alexander learns that his handsome boy was never really his.


End file.
